


Strange Magick

by AMagicalCuttlefish (CelestialCuttlefish)



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, It's basically a series about Marianne's life in phases of the moon, Most likely sporadic posting, Nerds in Love, Seriously I don't know why, Witch AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialCuttlefish/pseuds/AMagicalCuttlefish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moonlight is perfect right now.</p><p>A witch AU with a lot of moon symbolism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Magick

**Author's Note:**

> “The moon is a loyal companion.  
> It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human.  
> Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.”  
> \- Tahereh Mafi, from her book “Shatter Me”
> 
> Huge section of notes at the end. Oops!

The front room of the aging house seems cavernous and strange to the two small figures that inch inside, their hands clutched between them like an anchor against some invisible tide. Within the ancient walls everything is stagnant, undisturbed before this day for what they're sure could have been eons. It seems bizarre to step foot inside, as if the tiny pair are trespassing on a world they could never understand; a world even time could never hope to change.  And yet this building is the one they will call home and somehow that thought is more incredible than any fantasy that has ever before passed through their minds because how could such a place, so stoic and grand, be any home to them?  
  
They'd lived their whole lives in comfortable grandeur; in an old town house that caught every possible ray of sun and clung to it, filling the space with warmth and familiarity. Every inch of their former residence had been sunlight and summer; flowers in every window, cheery brightness their constant companion. This new place seemed to be carved of darkness, steeped in stardust and moonbeams from the cold glow of the dark hardwood floors to the murky depth of the high ceilings.  
  
The sound of their footsteps on the floor seems to cut through the heavy silence and the young girls edge closer to each other, as if afraid the quiet might retaliate. A soft breeze presses against their back from the open doorway, crisp with the beginnings of fall, and stirs their hair as it passes into the building. The night chill drives away some of the stagnant air within but does nothing to dispell the children's fears as they creep across the floor, staying close to the wall, wide eyes scanning the darkness as if it might rise up to devour them. The smaller of the two, her blue eyes wide with fear, clings closer as she stares at some offending shadow that she's sure has moved a little closer. She does not cling to the pretense of bravery as her sister does, the brunette keeping her chin lifted a little as if challenging the shadows to lay a hand on either of them.  
  
As the elder and clearly more mature of the two, Marianne is convinced it is her duty as a sister to protect Dawn; all sweetness and blonde curls as she is. It's a necessity, in Mari's mind, that she be the rock; the lionhearted adventurer ready to defend her sister from anything and anyone. But even feigning fearlessness, Marianne finds that she jumps a little at the sound of a third set of footsteps. She swings her head back, eyes wide, only to realize with a little frustration that the third is their mother, arms full of cardboard boxes.  
  
The mother of the pair lacks her daughter's cautiousness, gliding wordlessly across the bare floors and through the arch opposite the front door, her footsteps quick and sure. Her daughters scurry immediately after as if her presence is the only thing keeping the shadows at bay. In shadows and darkness, the only dull light filtered through thick window coverings, they are guided to a room that must have been as large as their townhouse and for a moment they can do nothing but stare, wide-eyed, into the expanse of the heavens.  
  
The room is no concern of theirs its the windows that catch their attention; monstrously large and spanning skyward for what seems like an eternity, greeting the night sky as an old friend. All of the universe stretches before them, a canvas of starlight and blackness. A large expanse of grass stretches toward the horizon, met a distance away by the silhouette of trees; so small far off they look almost like something drawn in, an afterthought. Above the jagged edges of the branches is a glaring infinity of sky; dark and deep as the sea, glittering with tiny specs of fire and magic that twinkle like something out of a storybook.  
  
Marianne doesn't realize she's forgotten to breathe until she feels fingers gently fluffing her hair.  
  
"I thought you'd like it, my lovely little butterflies."  
  
The smile in her mother's voice is nearly tangible and Marianne can't help but return it because she's sure she's never liked anything more than the vastness of the cosmos, stretched out before her like she owns them. It's not like magic; she knows magic, has felt it on her fingertips and on her tongue and in her blood. It's more like having a butterfly land on your nose and knowing, believing, if only for a moment, that you are part of something larger. That in the grand beautiful scheme of things you are there to play a part. That you are something worthy; a little piece of the heavens.  
  
She could stay there, in that spot, relishing the feeling of oneness for her whole life but the fingers in her hair are withdrawn and the insistent tug of a small hand pulls at her fingertips so she breaks her gaze from eternity and moves with Dawn to face their mother, who has gathered all of her things on the hearth of a fireplace she hadn't bothered to notice and appears to be readying herself for a ritual.  
  
Her things are spread carefully across the large stone hearth  an array of multicolored candles both small and tall, a bundle of dried lavender and white sage, cedar shavings, a small packet of matches, the fallen feathers of a hawk, and a misshapen clay bowl the pair of children had painted are all laid out side by side. Dawn's little hand tugs and tugs until both daughters are standing a little ways away and the elder sister tilts her head back to look through the windows once more but the presence of the blonde beside her, nearly vibrating with enthusiasm, is a distraction and so she draws her eyes to the top of the blonde head instead.  
  
Dawn was a fitting name for her sister. Even now, as the night hung heavy overhead and the insistent glow of sunlight was only a distant memory she was shining, glittering gold, her short curls gathered around her head like beams of sunlight. Marianne wondered, idly, why such a sunny thing was afraid of the dark. A child of the daylight could never succumb to the night; it was darkness that shrunk and withered under threat of light, not the other way around.  
  
Their mother, she was another creature entirely. Standing over her regeants, carefully fiddling until everything was just as it should be, her pale blonde curls hanging over her eyes where they escaped the hold at the nape of her neck; their mother was pale and delicate in features with large, soft green eyes. All of her small and frail looking from the long, delicate fingers to the slim length of her limbs and yet she was strong, so very strong. Her mother's strength was not the kind of strength Marianne has seen in her father; his strength formed from necessity, from the way others looked at him and the way others counted on him. His strength was built from expectation and the confidence others gave to him. The strength her mother had built had come from somewhere deep inside; some inexplicable part of her that had grown and grown from nurturing and belief and now, great and grown, radiated from her every pore, her every movement.  
  
If Dawn was sunlight, her mother was the light of the stars. Her light was an insistent glow, a warm presence in the background, always there and always shining. Her light was support and comfort; shining in the background beyond the sun and moon. Being in her presence, experiencing her glow, was enough to make you feel... something. It wasn't always the same something; sometimes her glow was just enough to raise those who basked in it, a blanket around your shoulders or the feeling of knowing you weren't alone. Other times she was overwhelming. A presence so much bigger and more lovely than those around her; a vast and expansive something that made those around her shrink and wilt under her.  
  
At that moment, standing at the table in the darkness, a match pinched between her fingers and a small, confident smile on her lips Boann was completely in her element. Her light was ethereal and unfathomable, shimmering around her in a haze of moonbeams catching stardust and while the sun bounced at her side with uncontained enthusiasm Marianne was left gaping at the goddess before her in all of her glory; starry eyed and beaming.  
  
The world is still for the little spectators, their breath held as if the tiniest motion would disrupt their chance to see their mother at work, and little Dawn winds her frail arms around her sister's waist, clinging to her in suspense. Her eyes, light as the sky, are wide and excitable. Marianne looks on with feigned nonchalance, though she swears her heartbeat is audible, and her own amber eyes glitter with the reflection of new born candle flames and starlight and a curiosity too great to be surpressed.  
  
Their mother takes the bundle of herbs in one hand and rifles around for a second match with the other. From her lips come a few whispered words, something the sisters can decipher only as some kind of invocation, and then one end of the bundle is lit. The still night air stirs to life with the scent of white sage and lavender, billowing from the bundle in lazy tendrils.  
  
The woman standing over the hearth reaches out to cup the smoke between her fingers. She brings it close in a motion that is sure and graceful as all she does and lets it spread over her heart, licking around her collarbone and spreading behind her, working it's way over her skin. Another puff follows, this one to her head, and she brings the smoke slowly from her head to her neck, her shoulders and arms, slowly down her chest and navel, and gradually down each of her legs until all of her is enveloped in the smoke. She is confident and calm, knowing in all her actions, absolute and assured and, as the amber eyed child looks upon her mother she cannot help but remember the words that her mother had given to her so many times before,  
  
"The Goddess is within you, child. She is within each of us."  
  
And, though the dark haired little girl sometimes doubted the Goddess could possibly have a share in herself, in her averageness and simplicity of character or in the clumsy way she moved or in the way she could never seem to hold her tongue; even though she doubted her own connection to the Divine Spirit in so many ways, she could not doubt her mother's. No, this woman cleansed in smoke that stood before her, outlined in the starlight that had never touched anyone as softly as it did her, was a Goddess if ever one did exist.  
  
The pale Goddess reached out both hands then, toward her young daughters, and the pair came forward immediately to slip their hands into hers. She guided them to stand before the smoke and lifted the still smoldering bundle in one hand and a feather in her other. With the feather she carefully directed the smoke over each of her children, giving quiet instructions to think of cleansing light and newness and the rebirth that was a new moon and she went on, whispering as she worked until the three stood together, hearts knowing the freshness of a clean slate, of a new beginning. When the woman looked down at her daughters four wide eyes met hers, one set the daytime sky and the other molten amber. There was such an unblinking light in those eyes, burning bright with curiosity and innocence and that beautiful capacity of understanding all children have, that it twisted something within the mother's heart. When she smiled down at them it was full of pride and knowing and absolution.  
  
She turned slowly from them, though, her bundle and feather still close at hand, and directed the smoke over the room. She moves through the empty house, working her way through the parlor, fanning the cleansing sage into every inch of space, breathing out a single reverent phrase over and over again, a soft chant in the empty space.  
  
"Maiden, mother, and crone; cleanse this space, remove the past. We’ve found our happy home at last. Fill this place with joy and love; send your blessings from above."  
  
The words, half prayer and half plea, spread through the room and the wide eyes of curious children follow the the woman as she travels from one end of their new space to another. Tiny feet thump on the floor when she starts to the next room and then pad after her, watching from around corners and doorways as she works her way through the rooms.  
  
And now, though the house was daunting only moments ago, it's such a pleasing thought; a new home. The house before had been all they'd ever known, all they'd ever had but suddenly leaving it was not so painful. It was a startling realization that their former home had been engulfed in light and warmth and yet could have been home; not when those that had known of the mother's practices had spread disgust and fear. Not when their classmates had chanted accusations against them, claiming they were witches contracted by the devil. Not when the sunlight had done nothing to frighten away the darkness around them. The sisters had known the warmth of the sun during their stay in their hometown and yet they'd lacked warmth from those around them. Now they had a new home, a new beginning. A place where they were free to be as they were, to practice as they wished, to embrace that which they loved without insult, without pain, without fear. And for the first time in her life, the elder daughter was sure she could be happy.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> From my understanding, after admittedly limited research, sage smudging is an old practice derived mainly (or at least most notably) from the First Nations people. It has been modernly adapted into a cleansing ritual in many NeoPagan circles, including many modern Wiccans (which this AU's Marianne falls somewhere in the spectrum of). This adaption of the practice has been referred to by some as cultural appropriation, which isn't an uncommon accusation for Wiccans on the whole as many of their practices are pieced together from cultures past and present. However, similar rituals were also reportedly performed in ancient Egypt and China, and the practice of burning herbs to create environmental change, so to speak, has been around long before. Considering the multicultural ritual use of herb burning and the knowledge that many modern Wiccans do, in fact, practice sage smudging I think it perfectly fitting for my fictional purposes. If you have any input on this, or any other aspect of my interpretation of Wicca please feel welcome to bring it to my attention.
> 
> The prayer is from google because I'm unoriginal.
> 
> This little exercise in writing fanfiction, an art I have long neglected practicing, has reminded me I should stick to making low quality gifs. I'll probably edit it later, since it's pretty rough. Please leave critiques if you have the time! Lord knows I need them.


End file.
